A Hitch Before Speaking
by demondreaming
Summary: A hitch before speaking. Cat only does it with you. And she's slowly infecting you with a held breath. Cade.


**Disclaimer: Victorious, much like a can opener, is not possessed by me. And I have so much damn soup, too. D:**

/

A hitch before speaking.

That's what catches your attention first. It's not like Cat to stutter, to think before she speaks. The girl's all talk and no thought. But that hitch, that pregnant silence that kicked at your ear, squalled louder than her words ever could. It was like the tuning of a radio, fuzzy white noise twisting into sharp clarity. You noticed other things then, not just that hitch. You paid attention, instead of staring past. You looked at the window instead of through it, and you started to notice the flecks of grime, the curlicues of wispy spiderwebs and peeling paint. Cat's not as transparent as you thought.

That hitch before speaking.

She only does it with you. That deep breath and pause, like the gears in her brain missed a beat, slipped a cog before sputtering into motion again, chirpy words spilling out like bursts of birdsong.

Not that she's the only one who pauses before speaking to you. Everyone does, eyes peering from underneath eyebrows to see what mood you're in, always scared, always with an edge. You prefer it that way. People don't waste your time then. There's no weather talk, or _Oh my god's_, or meaningless chatter. But it's fear that makes them pause. With Cat, it's something else. You know she's not scared of you, because meaningless chatter is _all _she does. Your claws have never scarred her. She's too quick for your swipes.

Her hitch before speaking.

It's not all that she does differently towards you. It's just the loudest, most obvious thing, because silence is so rare for her, even momentarily. You started paying attention, like she was some role you were studying, preparing for. Or a performance you were dissecting. Every little nuance.

She laughs a lot around you. Not real laughs. Not ones that make the corners of her eyes crinkle, and her hand flutter to her stomach. Little ones. Giggles. Breathy and short, cut off with a snap, like a case closed. Noises of nervousness, held high in her lungs, with tones that bleed into her words. Her hands fidget with little things. Bits of lace that edge her clothes, bows and straps and buckles and bracelets. Anything she can get her hands on. When she stands beside you she edges back, as if you're a wall she's using for support, and every word to someone else is thrown back to you, like she's waiting for you to stroke it or slap it away, weigh it for worth. Her eyes are butterflies, that flick and flutter from spot to spot on your skin, only occasionally touching over your eyes, lingering on your cheeks, your lips, your chin, wingbeats soft and tentative. Their touch is so light you barely felt it. Until you opened your eyes, and saw your skin covered in that fragile dust.

You're an actress. A writer. A director. You know emotion, you know characters. You've spent a large chunk of your life dissecting them, putting them back together to get the image you desire, the character you want. And you've realised Cat's playing _Girl With A Crush_.

It's the only thing that makes sense. The nervousness, the giggling (more inane than usual), and, most importantly, that hitch. Like she needs to think about her words because she's scared of what she might say. You suppose it should come with some kind of shock; the realisation that Cat thinks that way about you. That Cat's neither straight nor narrow. That the girl who's essentially your best friend (if you can be said to have such a thing), has more than friendly feelings for you. That you have no doubt of. You're not stupid, you know the signs. You're not the type to shrug things off, to reason them away. A cat's a cat, and this Cat is in love.

You could be like Tori. Sputter and wave your hands, and move back back back. That's how she reacts to anything, really. She can't help but overact in everything she does. Or you could be like Robbie. Stutter and spit and crumple, ducking your face and speaking into your chest. But you've got a spine that won't let you, and you've actually talked to people before. Maybe you could be like Andre. Laugh it off, shoulders slung back, kind words in a warm voice. Or like Beck, quiet and serious, with a soft smile, hands on your jeans-clad knees. It's funny; you can think of how everyone else would react, but you're not sure how you should. You don't really feel one way or another about it. Maybe because you're keeping it at arms length, treating it like a character study.

It comes suddenly closer one day, when Cat shuffles back into you like she always does, close and warm, and your hands flutter on her hips for just a second before slipping away.

A hitch before she speaks. "...Jade?"

What character are you playing? _Unavailable? Interested? Understanding Friend?_ You don't know. Maybe you're all of them, mixed together. Maybe you're reading off different scripts, jumping from scene to scene. You can't decide which role fits you best. Which one isn't a role at all, and is just you. You'd talk to someone about it, if you were the touchy-feely type like Tori, who can't even decide what to have for lunch without a long and angsty discussion. It'd be easier if Cat would just blurt it out to you, like she does every other little thing that pops in her head. But she's locked this away, and you don't have the skills to pick her lock, only peer through the keyhole.

So you do nothing. You listen to those hitches before she speaks, and your breath matches hers in your lungs, and your fingers brush her when she leans into you, and you try to pretend you don't know what you're sure of. It was fun at first, to dissect her from a distance. But you're not as cold as you like to think. No matter what you say, she _is _at least your friend, and you do care about her. Even if you're not sure how much. You're better at gauging other people's feelings than you are your own.

It's not like people don't get crushes on you, you know how to deal with this with other people. Cutting words, and acerbic threats. It's how you deal with Sinjin. But that's not a real crush. It's an infatuation because you're pretty, and Sinjin is a freak. Cat's a freak too, but she's one that you like, and her crush is... you don't know how to deal with it. You might be able to make scathing remarks, but you're a sword, not a dagger. You pack a lot of punch, but not much subtlety. You're no good at navigating the finer points of emotion. And if this is a battle, you're not sure which side you're on.

Part of you is hoping that Cat's quiet crush will die as silently as it lived. It'd be easier that way. For everyone. But it's hard to deny that something is burgeoning in you, something flickering and quick. And while you were okay with Cat having this kept crush, this creates a problem. Because Cat is sweet, and kind, but so is Beck, and you were with him first. At least with him, you know what side you're fighting on.

You should probably spend less time with her, more time with Beck, cut your own tentative swellings off before they root in you, but your casual apathy shrugs it off. It's not worth bothering with. Cat won't make a move; that's another thing she only is with you. Shy. Every sentence has a question mark. She melds herself to you, like you're something to aspire to. That's one thing you both like and dislike about her; she thinks you're great. It feels nice to be close to her, to have her press against you, like you're something that could protect her. Like you're a shield instead of a sword. Beck doesn't make you feel that way. He handles your edge with care, he's well aware of what you are. He doesn't make you feel special. There's no hitch before he speaks.

Everything is normal. As normal as it can be. Your lungs are a little tighter around her, and her skin is a little softer under your fingers, but your words are the same. Hard edged, but only enough to bruise. Her chatter may be meaningless, but it's that hitch beforehand that means everything. That pause, where you hear a whole conversation of whispered words. Sometimes you just want to put a finger to her lips, when her chatter overflows, and just wait, wait and hear those unspoken words. You're wanting to hear them more and more. You stop your own breath just to hear them.

There comes a moment where you're in between. When Cat's begging you to sleep over, and just a month ago, you would've given in after a token protest. But it's different now, and it becomes clear that you care about this now. Because the thought of sleeping with Cat holds a threat. You've shared her bed before, had her cuddled up to your stiff frame before, and it's never meant a thing. Nothing but annoyance over Cat's need to be close to you. That need that makes so much sense now. Too much sense.

You give in to her finally. To say no means there's something to it after all. Something on your side. And you can't admit to that. You don't get crushes, and certainly not over airheaded girls like Cat. You don't love anyone else but Beck. You do not.

But there's a hitch before you speak.

It starts off normally. Cat chattering like an excited dolphin, popcorn cluttering her words while you make grunts of assent, occasionally correcting her when she makes some gross error. The movie is boring, some Hollywood blockbuster. It's ironic, really, that these are the kinds of pictures you want to star in, but abhor so much. It's easier to judge when you have a little knowledge.

Cat squirms up next to you, where you're seated at the end of her bed, back flush against her bedend, carpet thick underneath, smelling slightly of roses and dust. Her shoulder dips against yours, hip jolting you as she wiggles up, toes wriggling in the rich carpet. She drapes herself over you like she's her namesake, tail flicking gently in the sunshine, ribs rumbling with a subdued purr. It's pressing in on you. All the words she's not saying. You can hear fragments, pieces that you can pull from her sentences to make mean something, words she should be speaking. Words that populate that hitch. Her silences have been getting louder and louder. They almost deafen you now.

You feel your own conversation die in your throat, trapped by words that want to come out, that prickle and stick in the soft lining of your trachea, that get caught in the shivering cables of your vocal chords. Your silence doesn't seem to stop her own torrent of conversation, words pouring and cascading over you, lapping at your chin, your nose, until you can't breathe from the sheer volume. And her arm is touching yours and her breath is warm where it whispers against your shoulder, your neck, and you scrape a breath in from the liquid air, feeding your starving lungs. Amidst her chatter comes a pause, a break, a snapped twig. That hitch. It sets forth the dam of emotion that's built in you, it's broken your camels back with a feather touch. "_Cat._"

Your words hitch.

"You need to stop."

Cat's fingers tickle your arm where they wander, her eyes wide and confused. "Stop what?"

"Stop this... this..." You cast your hand out, as if the words are daggers you can hurl to her wall, and plot out the points where things changed. "_This_."

Your teeth squeeze against each other where they grit, words leaking between them, tongue held captive in an enamel cage.

Cat looks you up and down, lips parting slightly, and you wonder if you'd be able to taste the hitch on her breath, feel the hesitance on her lips. "The... the sleepovers?" She stammers, fingers growing limp and dropping to your thigh.

"The words you never say, Cat." The sign language she taps out into your skin, the quiet song she sings in her body when she looks at you. The hitch that tugs at your heart and drives you insane.

A hitch before speaking.

"You need to..."

That hitch before speaking.

"I need to..."

_Your_ hitch before speaking.

What you need, what you need to do, is nothing and everything and too much and not enough. You need to speak to her, to whisper words that you can't articulate, that sing in your blood but burn your skin when they try to surface. It started in your fluttering fingertips, your hips that tilted to press into her just a little more, every time she used you for support, and spread to your traitorous lips, your cowardly lungs. She's infected you with her disease, and you just want to give it back.

What you need is to think. To pull your hand back from where it's crept to her cheek, skin soft and warm, arch of her cheekbone hard under your palm. To stop your hips from shuffling you closer, tilting you forward. To stop your lips from parting, stained with words stoppered in your throat.

She tastes like popcorn and longing. There's whispering in her lips, and the signs she spells out with her shaking fingers on your waist tattoo themselves on your still heart. Your hitched heart. It doesn't feel like you thought it would. It feels like a pause, a waiting, and of course it is. The words still aren't said, and you push them forward with the tip of your tongue, and feed them, trembling, between her parted lips, until she pulls away with a gasp, lips shining, cheeks flushed. She burns your hand as it slips away.

A kiss is just four letters, easily said. But kisses rarely come alone, and the ones that do are followed by too many words, too many letters. So you don't say anything. And when you kiss her again, it's easier this time. You know how her lips shape the syllable.

You don't know whether this is wrong, or right. It's a mixture of both that simmers to be ambiguous at best. But it feels like holding your breath in the dark, it feels like anticipation, and it really shouldn't surprise you.

It started with that hitch. And after your words of _kiss, touch, feel, breathe_, it'll end with one too.

/

**A/N: So. Here we are again. Another author's note.**

**Or, for those of you who don't read me regularly, something to skim over as you skip the review button. Which, really, they should make a _lot_ more appealing. I mean, look at it, sitting down there. Completely unobtrusive and subtle.**

**They should put some lights around it. Flashing lights. Get the attention of epileptic people and such. Maybe colour it something garish, like a bright purple, or a sickly green. Really visually assault the eyes, and then make an insult about the eyes mother.**

**Maybe add on a deafening siren should the cursor even so much as brush over the general region of the review button.**

**And once all this is done, add a review button for the review button, just to be thorough.**

**I guess what I'm trying to say is; if I say 'review' enough, maybe you'll review, and I can read that review and stop saying 'review'. And then we can all be happy.**

_**Review~**_


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